They had at last reached the works, where the farmer’s interest was again roused.  There he saw ploughs and harrows of the latest pattern, and was suddenly reminded that for a long time he had been thinking of getting a new reaper.  Gazing fondly at his good-looking son, he pictured him sitting on a fine, red-painted reaper, cracking his whip over the horses, and mowing down the thick, waving grass, as a war hero mows down his enemies.  And as he stepped into the office he seemed to hear the clicking noise of the reaper, the soft swish of falling grass and the shrill chirp and light flutter of frightened birds and insects.

On the desk in there lay the deed.  The negotiations had been concluded, and the price settled upon; all that was needed to complete the deal was his signature.

While the deed was being read to him he sat quietly listening.  He heard that there were so and so many acres of woodland, and so and so many of arable land and meadow, so and so many head of cattle, and such and such household furnishings, all of which he must turn over.  His features became set.

“No,” he said to himself, “it mustn’t happen.”

After the reading he was about to say that he had changed his mind, when his son bent down and whispered to him: 

“Father, it’s a choice between me and the farm, for I’m going anyway no matter what you do.”

The peasant had been so completely taken up with thoughts of his farm that it had not occurred to him that his son would leave him.  So Gabriel would go in any case!  He could not quite make this out.  He would never have thought of leaving had his son decided to remain at home.  But, naturally, wherever his son went, he, too, must go.

He stepped up to the desk, where the deed was now spread out for him to sign.  The manager himself handed him the pen, and pointed to the place where he was to write his name.

“Here,” he said, “here’s where you write your name in full—­’Hoek Matts Ericsson.’”

When he took the pen it flashed across his mind how, thirty-one years back, he had signed a deed whereby he had acquired a bit of barren land.  He remembered that after writing his name, he had gone out to inspect his new property.  Then this thought had come to him:  “See what God has given you!  Here you have work to keep you going a lifetime.”

The manager, thinking his hesitancy was due to uncertainty as to where he should write his name, again pointed to the place.

“The name must be written there.  Now write ‘Hoek Matts Ericsson.’”

He put the pen to the paper.  “This,” he mused, “I write for the sake of my faith and my soul’s salvation; for the sake of my dear friends the Hellgumists, that I may be allowed to live with them in the unity of the spirit, and so as not to be left alone here when they all go.”

And he wrote his first name.

“And this,” he went on thinking, “I write for the sake of my son Gabriel, so I shan’t have to lose the dear, good lad who has always been so kind to his old father, and to let him see that after all he is dearer to me than aught else.”